


Inside a Broken Clock

by WhichWolfWins



Series: Your Name Tattooed Across My Heart [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Depressing, Depression, Established Relationship, M/M, Punklock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:20:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhichWolfWins/pseuds/WhichWolfWins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock found the envelope in a pair of John's favorite acid-washed jeans.</p><p>Or, how Sherlock and Gladstone missed John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside a Broken Clock

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags.
> 
> This fic is in no way brit-picked or beta'd, so if you see any mistakes, they are my own and I would love for you to inform me of them! :)
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC, and anyone else involved in the making and producing of this show. This is in no way mine; these are their toys and I am simply playing with them.
> 
> The album and song used in this story is Rain Dogs, by Tom Waits, and they belong to him and his label, Island. They are not mine, but I love them like they're my own. The title of this story also comes from the song Rain Dogs.
> 
>  
> 
> *Edited:7/9/13*

He knew John was hiding something. It wasn’t the fact that he could feel Mycroft’s eyes all over the city, even more so than in weeks gone by, that gave it away. It was because at night, when he lay beside John in their bed on Montague Street, John held him tighter and he could sense John’s eyes on him when he wasn’t looking, and there was a pause and a hesitance when John started his sentences with Sherlock’s name, like he was going to say something else afterward, but changed his mind.

Sherlock found the envelope in a pair of John’s favorite acid-washed jeans. By the wrinkles and the frayed corners, Sherlock could tell that the letter had been exchanged from pocket to pocket with each passing day; John had actively kept the envelope and the message inside a secret from Sherlock. 

When John found him, Sherlock had the envelope in his hands. Their dog, Gladstone, lay at Sherlock’s feet, his dark grey head on his paws and his light blue eyes watching Sherlock worriedly. Sherlock had already read what was inside. John had known it would happen eventually and Sherlock wondered if John had even planned to tell him, or if he decided to wait it out until Sherlock discovered the news for himself. 

Sherlock had trouble breathing and if he hadn’t felt so numb, he would probably have been doing something more dramatic. He might have raised the letter up for John to see and asked him about it or tore it to shreds while screaming at John at the top of his lungs for betraying him. He might have sobbed and begged John not to do this to him, to ‘ _please, John, just stay with me. What’s so wrong with staying here with me?_ ’. But he didn’t, because he _was_ numb and all those emotions were eluding him in that moment as John stood in the kitchen archway with a Tesco bag dangling in the curl of his fingertips. 

All he could do was stare blankly at the envelope. He couldn’t hear a thing; not John’s breathing or his, not the steady drip of the kitchen sink that John had planned to fix as soon as he found where the bloody wrench had got off to, or the annoying buzz of their refrigerator that kept Sherlock up some nights when they didn’t have a case. 

So when John approached, Sherlock didn’t hear it. Nor did he see the movement of John coming closer to him. Everything besides the letters addressing John H. Watson as the intended recipient of the envelope were an unfocused blur around the edges of his vision. They were non-existent, because, in that moment, nothing else mattered to Sherlock. How could they, when his whole world was crashing down around him? 

“Sherlock,” he heard John say. He sounded weary and worried, and maybe even a hint disappointed. 

Sherlock wondered if he was trembling. He wondered if John could see tears in his eyes or if his lips were pressed together or his jaw was clenched. He wondered if he was keening like he wanted to, or if all John saw was the blank-faced expression on the face he’d kissed every day for the past three years. 

It wasn’t until John slid to the floor to sit beside him with one knee tucked up and one leg stretched out, ending with his favorite spiked-boots, that Sherlock finally reacted. He sucked in a deep breath, one he needed because somewhere along the way he’d stopped breathing, and shoved the letter into John’s chest. 

He stood quickly and strode out of the room, Gladstone trailing close at his heels. Sherlock wished they had a bedroom door for him to slam. Since they didn’t, he shoved a book off his desk, making it hit the floor in just the right way to make a startlingly loud slap, and stormed to the bed. He threw himself down on top of it and curled up on his side, and stared at the wall for hours. Gladstone lay beside the bed, staring with him until eventually the worried dog fell asleep. 

John didn’t enter their bedroom that night and Sherlock knew that John hadn’t left, because he didn’t hear the squeal of the doorjamb as the front door closed. He’d been listening for it. 

He wasn’t able to fall asleep and he barely made it past midnight before he betrayed his stubbornness and went into their living room. He heard the scrape of Gladstone’s spiky collar on the hardwood as Gladstone stood to follow. 

John was laying on the sofa with the blanket they added to their bed in the winter tucked in around him. His head of spiky hair was just barely visible poking out toward the end of the sofa near the window, but it was enough for Sherlock to see that John was facing the back cushions. 

For the past few months, John had been trying out different colors in his otherwise wheat-colored hair. The cobalt blue was still his favorite, but Sherlock really loved the way his current sky blue brought out John’s eyes. 

There was barely any room on the edge of the couch, but Sherlock still laid down on it and pressed himself to John’s back. He teetered there, perched on his shoulder and bony hip, until John scooted toward the back cushions and made more room for him. Gladstone jumped up onto the other end of their L-shaped sofa and curled into a ball to watch over them. 

“Hey,” John said, the word muffled in the blanket, but Sherlock heard it nonetheless and felt the vibration of it through his chest. 

Sherlock didn’t respond, didn’t think he could, but he pressed his forehead against the back of John’s neck and bunched his fingers in the blanket over John’s hips. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you first,” John told him. “I was afraid of how you would react.” 

Sherlock laughed humourlessly against John’s soft skin. 

“It’s not as if I won’t come back,” John said. 

“But what if you don’t?” Sherlock asked, his voice catching on the last word and releasing it as a whisper. 

John’s body began to wriggle in front of Sherlock until he was fully turned around and facing him. He met Sherlock’s eyes in their dark living room and tugged his hand out of the blanket to cup Sherlock’s cheek, his fingers ending in Sherlock’s hair. “We risk our lives every day, Sherlock. This will be no different.” 

“Yes it will,” Sherlock said. “I won’t be with you.” 

John smiled sadly. “We lived most of our lives apart, Sherlock, and this is something I’ve always wanted to do.” 

Sherlock had known that much, but he had never thought John would follow through with it. They were a team, solving crimes together and catching bad guys, and he thought that would be enough. John had always wanted to be nothing like his abusive, alcoholic father, and John’s antonym for that had been hero and healer. 

John stretched up and kissed Sherlock softly on the forehead. “Get some rest, Sherlock. It’s not for another fortnight.” 

* * *

The days went by way too quickly and with each passing hour, minute, second, Sherlock could feel John slipping from his fingers. Physically, John was closer than ever before, kissing him long and deep, moving inside him the same way, but all Sherlock could think about was how, in just so many days, John would be gone from him for four years. 

The night before John left, Sherlock couldn’t fall asleep and John couldn’t either. It seemed staring at the wall had become Sherlock’s new status quo and studying the back of Sherlock’s neck had become John’s. Most nights, John would trace the knobs at the top of Sherlock’s spine with his nose or catch the curls of Sherlock’s multi-coloured hair between his lips and tug gently, knowing how much Sherlock liked having his hair pulled. He would lay down gentle kisses on each light freckle and beauty mark he found and trace each subtle curve of Sherlock’s body with his tongue. That night, however, John simply buried his nose in Sherlock’s curls and held onto him. 

When morning came, Sherlock rolled over to face John. John’s flagging eyelids raised and he looked at Sherlock questioningly. Sherlock didn’t speak - he just framed John’s beautiful face in his hands and kissed him, and kissed him, and didn’t stop kissing him until John pulled away to gasp for air. 

They were frantic, their hands all over each other, their tongues and teeth colliding as they tried to get closer, delve their tongues deeper. They were starving for the taste of each other’s mouths, the feeling of each other’s skin, and they just couldn’t seem to get enough. 

That morning, they did something they never had before. They stripped each other bare and Sherlock reached for the lube to prepare himself quickly, but John stopped him. When Sherlock met his eyes, John kissed him again and slid his knees to the outside of Sherlock’s hips. 

It wasn’t something they had ever discussed before. It had simply never been something they had done together and Sherlock never tried to push, because he enjoyed things as they were and he figured that if ever John wanted to try it, then they would. Now, it seemed that time had come. 

John had taken Sherlock’s fingers before, so it wasn’t a completely foreign experience preparing him, but they had only ever tried two fingers and three took some time. 

John was circling his hips and taking Sherlock’s fingers with little effort when Sherlock finally removed them and lined himself up, bare, at John’s entrance. He curled his fingers around John’s hips and pressed his fingers into John’s arse cheeks as he sank carefully into him. 

They had never been so rough before. Sherlock was slow at first, careful not to hurt John with each new thrust, but soon John was trying to bring Sherlock closer, take him deeper, and he kept asking for ‘more’, ‘Sherlock, faster’, ‘please’, and Sherlock answered him with harder thrusts, needing it just as much as John did. 

When Sherlock came, it was inside of John, and he got to watch from above as John followed, crying out as Sherlock struck his prostate in quick succession and releasing the white ropes of his come onto their bellies. 

They showered together, running their hands over each other’s body, worshipping, memorizing, and they dressed slowly afterward, trying to stretch out the little time they had before it was finally time for them to go. And when Sherlock saw John off at the airport, he couldn’t cry, because the numbness was back. He clung to John instead and John held on just as tight, like a drowning man, gripping Sherlock’s faded blue denim jacket (that used to be his) in his hands. He kissed Sherlock’s neck, his chin, his lips. He kissed Sherlock’s eyelids like he did when he knew Sherlock was sad. 

"I love you, John," Sherlock said quietly against John's lips. He rarely said it, but he meant it with every breath he took. 

"I love you, too, Sherlock," John said, like it was absurd, the idea that he could possibly not do. 

Just before he left, Sherlock felt John slip his hand into his pocket, then he was walking away. Soon, his light blue spikes were all Sherlock could see of him. 

Mycroft, who had been a silent presence standing off to the side after telling John ‘good luck’, nodded to Sherlock and led the way to the car. 

* * *

In his pocket, Sherlock found a note. Written in John’s small handwriting was a short little message to Sherlock: _Tell me about every case and I’ll write them for you like I was there. I love you. -JWH_

A small smile curved on one side of Sherlock’s mouth and he ran his finger over the words. John Watson Holmes. They’d discussed it before. Marriage had always been something John had wanted, but Sherlock had never thought about it for himself, because he couldn’t even fathom being able to stand being with someone for the rest of his life, or anyone willing to put up with him for that long -- until John. And he’d come to the decision that, if John wanted to, they could be married. Sherlock Holmes Watson, he sometimes thought, would be a good name. He liked the idea of legally belonging with John. 

He hadn’t cried in a long time. Not since he was a small child. So when the tears came, they took him by surprise, as did the way his lungs didn’t seem to want to take in air and the whimpering sounds he was making. Gladstone, who’d been laying by the door since they’d left that morning, cocked his head at the strange new sound. 

Sherlock reached over to the stereo and pressed play. The last CD John had listened to was inside and it was just the one Sherlock had been hoping for. John would chastise him for listening to it when he was in a mood like this, but it was John’s favorite, so there was something about it that made him feel better. The CD was Gladstone’s favorite, too. He liked the range of instruments used in each song, the different tones in the singer’s voice. He would tilt his head and stare at the speakers, listening intently. 

On the night John and Sherlock had woken to the sound of a dog howling low outside their door, it had been pouring down rain. There was a chill in their flat with all the windows closed and they had their winter blanket tucked in around them as they slept. John had glanced over at Sherlock and gotten quickly out of bed to go to the door. Sherlock had smiled at the way the cold affected John’s cock. He’d planned to warm it for him when John got back in bed. 

John wrapped his tattered, terrycloth robe around himself and Sherlock frowned in disappointment. It fell to just below John’s arse; pity. 

John peeked out the door and rain spattered into the flat at his feet. Sherlock watched as John’s hand slipped from the doorknob and he darted out the door. Curious, Sherlock got quickly out of bed and went to the door. Drenched and shivering on their doorstep was a Weimaraner. Rain dripped from it’s floppy ears and the tip of it’s dark gray nose. 

“Jesus!” John had exclaimed softly. He went to the whimpering dog, taking slow, cautious steps at first, and wrapped his arms around it. It was skin and bones. He hefted the soaking dog into his arms and carried it into their flat, soothing his hand down it’s back. 

“Run a bath,” he told Sherlock as he went to their linen closet and grabbed a towel. 

Sherlock was meticulous with the water, making sure it wasn’t too cold or too hot. He filled it with bubbles and stepped aside to let John by. The dog was shaking so much John nearly dropped it, but he managed to lower it carefully into the bathwater. 

Sherlock watched from the door as John scrubbed the dog, gentle to make sure it wasn’t injured underneath it’s wet fur, but the dog seemed fine besides looking like it hadn’t been fed in a while. 

John dried the dog and wrapped it with a fresh towel. He carried the dog to the bed and climbed up on top of it to lean against the red brick wall. He held the dog in his arms and scratched his fingers behind the dog’s ears. 

“Put on 'Rain Dogs',” John had said, smiling up at Sherlock with a wavery smile. 

Sherlock had gone to the stereo and made sure the CD was in the player before he clicked to the proper song. Once the song began to play, he crawled onto the bed beside John and laid beside him, curling his arm over John’s thighs. He laid his head on the pillow and listened. 

_With the Rain Dogs, aboard a shipwreck train, give my umbrella to the Rain Dogs, for I am a Rain Dog, too._

From then on, it was the song they played to soothe Gladstone to sleep when he was agitated or nervous, or just wouldn’t sleep, and it worked every time. It rarely took three repeats of the song before Gladstone’s eyelids drifted closed. 

He had quieted by the time 'Rain Dogs' came on, his tears having soaked away into his pillow. He was curled into a ball on the bed that was too big for just him. 

_Oh, how we danced and we swallowed the night, for it was all ripe for dreamin’. Oh, how we danced away all of the lights. We’ve always been out of our minds._

Sherlock fell asleep that night with John’s pillow clutched in his arms. It smelled like him and Sherlock wondered how long it would take until their flat no longer carried John’s scent. 

* * *

He wanted to write to John, but he didn’t know what to say. The days continued to go by. Eventually, Gladstone left his place by the door and returned to sleeping in his dog bed, black with blue cat skeletons. Mycroft stopped checking up on him, because Sherlock never said a word. Every case he was handed seemed barely a 5 without John there. 

Every letter Sherlock started in his head sounded wrong. _Wrong wrong wrong_. They would only upset John. A year went by and the only letter Sherlock had actually written was short: 

_John, 'The Whiphand' practiced in our flat today. Lestrade stayed after everyone had left and he asked me how I was and how you were. I showed him the picture you sent of you in your camos and he said he almost didn’t recognize you with that hair._

_He said your name today and Gladstone hurried to the door and stood staring at it as if he thought you might come through at any moment. After Lestrade had gone, Gladstone still hadn’t moved. No matter how many times I called him, he wouldn’t move from the spot._

_He was shaking, like he was that night, and he was whimpering. I laid down on the floor beside him and held him in my arms the way you used to, but he didn’t stop trembling._

_You never came._

Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to send it. Even he knew it would have been a cruel thing to do. He only ever wrote about the cases after that. There were a lot of them. So many, because he couldn’t bear having his mind free to think for too long. It was when he wasn’t working a case that the letters began writing themselves: 

_John, I saw a man with your shoulders today._

_John, I had a dream about you last night. You were walking from Tesco with groceries and you walked up the steps to a nice house. A woman answered the door with a child on her hip that had your eyes and kissed you like she had a million times before._

_John, I haven’t had an erection since you left. It’s nothing to be concerned about, because I'd never had one before I met you._

_John, today a man broke into our flat and he tried to kill me. Gladstone attacked him. He saved my life, you saved his. In a way, it was like you were there. Saving me as always._

_John, I never told you this, but the night I met you, I had planned for it to be my last. It was why I finally 'made my move', as you would say. If you had never gone to see _The Whiphand_ perform, I would not be here today._

* * *

It was one year before John was supposed to come home that he got the text. His brother had tried to call twice before sending it. 

_John has been shot. It’s touch and go. A car is waiting for you downstairs. MH_

Sherlock wasted no time in getting Gladstone into his carrying cage. It was covered in the stickers of his and John’s favorite bands. It was heavy, but it was nothing in comparison to the weight of knowing John might never come home.

_Oh, how we danced and you whispered to me, you'll never be going back home, you'll never be going back home._

**Author's Note:**

> If you have the time, I would appreciate it if you could tell me what you think of this! :)
> 
> If you would like to follow me on Tumblr, you can find me [ here!](http://whichwolfwins.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I hope you liked it!


End file.
